


Exert from: The Patrician's Hat

by Demmora



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: a work in progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8652577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demmora/pseuds/Demmora
Summary: And there it was. Give ‘em a show, Moist thought, talk a fast game and act like you belonged and even falling could look like flying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was asked to share what I was working on on tumblr, so I thought I'd post this little exert here too. This fic follows on from my precious Moist Von Lipwig Fic, **One Man, One Vote.** Enjoy.

The sound of the crowd was hushed from up here, but Moist could still make out the cheering as he peered down at the palace gates from the window of Lord Vetinari’s office.

No. He corrected himself. _His_ office…

“Sorry,” he said, turning back to face Drumknott who was waiting expectantly. “I wasn’t listening, what did you say?”

The man looked tired, Moist thought. But then they all did. There hadn’t been an inauguration in decades—at least if you didn’t count that brief fiery episode with the dragon—and as far as Moist could gleam the dragon had been more readily accepted.

It wasn’t that the guilds _hadn’t_ been polite about it. Simply that they had been so pointedly polite, Moist had began patting himself down for exit wounds after every handshake. He knew he had the unequivocal support of the merchant guilds, and to an extent he supposed that was part of the problem. Lords and Ladies even those who had risen up as butchers bakers and candlestick makers, did not take kindly to being overruled by Greengrocers, Cobblers and for some strange reason, the Royal Association of Dental Technicians and Veterinary Care (Bridging the Gape Between Crowne and Canine ʃince 1801).

“As you are aware, it is customary for the Patrician to hold no other form of office while in power, Sir. Symbolic or otherwise.”

Moist nodded. He’d already signed the paperwork rescinding his personal positions within the Royal Mint, and the Guild of Accountants was drafting something up in a hurry for him to hand over the role of Royal Levy Officer into their efficient ranks.  

“Which means I will require the very-nearly-gold chain…” Drumknott carried on, holding open a box which held a velvet cushion inside.

“Oh,” Moist said, reaching for his neck and lifting the Guild of Merchants seal away from his chest, “Right, yes. Fine.”

“And …” the clerk swallowed visibly. “The uh, the hat…Sir.”

Instinct made him snatch the golden cap off his head, clutching it tightly in front of him. “My hat…”

“Yes, sir.” Drumknott winced apologetically, “I’m afraid so.”

It didn’t look like much, but then it never had. He’d worn it out of sentimentality more than anything else, a symbol the citizens of Ankh-Morpork knew by sight. The lopsided bulk of the flaking gold wings had been a familiar and reassuring weight on his head as he’d stood waving on the steps. It was ridiculous to be so attached to it. After all, it was just a hat, what did it matter if it was no longer his?

Moist sighed, twirling the cap around his finger one last time and setting it free. It landed on the desk atop a pile of letters and Moist felt mildly better. He’d been aiming for them, but no one needed to know that.

“Anything else, Drumknott? The coat off my back, the fillings in my teeth?”

“No sir, that’s all for now.”

Moist watched him scuttle towards the door, the clerk retrieving the golden hat as he went, pausing by the office door. “And if you’ll allow me sir, as Acting Head Clerk, to welcome you to office,” the other man looked down, eyes suspiciously bright, “his Lordship would have been…”

 _Don’t say it,_ Moist thought, _don’t you dare say it._ “Hold on,” he interrupted, “What do you mean _Acting_ Head Clerk?”

Drumknott seemed to startle a little at that, “I…well sir, it’s customary for the Patrician to pick his own household staff…I will of course retain the position and duties until you find a suitable candidate.”

And suddenly, some small sliver of Moist’s life made sense again. The fearful looks in the hallway, the way the maids who had always been quick with a smile before had dropped back into the walls…the way Drumknott had barely met his eye this whole time…

This, was people. He could do _people_.

“Ah, yes, as a matter of fact I have someone in mind.”

“Sir?”

It was summer and the air was warm, but the sudden chill in the office was enough to make Moist’s ears pop from the pressure change.

“Yes,” he said, reaching up to wiggle his finger in his ear, “quiet fellow, likes trains. Always has a pencil I can borrow.” He smiled as realization dawned on the other man’s face. “By the way, how is Miss Healstether? Doing well?”

“I…uh, yes, sir. Visiting next week.”

“Ah yes,” Moist smiled, making his way over to the plain desk and pulling out the chair behind it, “the new Überwald Express is quite something, if I say so myself. Do I have any appointments this morning, Drumknott?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good, do send a clacks down to Hobbs and Spools, the Milliner of Mercury Street. Tell him I’d like to see him at his earliest convenience. Oh and if you happen to see my wife, tell her I’ll see her and the children for lunch. If you can’t find her try following the trail of fabric, I believe she invited Lady Sybil to help measure curtains.”

“Will that be all, my Lord?”

And there it was. _Give ‘em a show,_ Moist thought, talk a fast game and act like you belonged and even falling could look like flying.

“No, Drumknott, thank you. You may go.”

He waited until he was sure the other man was gone, counting under his breath until he heard the door to the antechamber open and close, and then sat down heavily behind the desk. 

After a brief eternity of staring at nothing, he let his fingers rest on either side of the ledger in front of him, and turned his eyes upwards.

“I commend my soul to any god that can find it.”


End file.
